


Tensile Strength

by sophiegaladheon



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Background Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov - Freeform, Caretaking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Light Angst, Overworking, Profanity, Stress, Supportive Katsuki Yuuri, Supportive Victor Nikiforov, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, mentions of the off-screen injury of a minor character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 16:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18673789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiegaladheon/pseuds/sophiegaladheon
Summary: When his latest growth spurt hits in the middle of the season, Yuri feels the pressure.  Learning his grandfather is in the hospital doesn’t help.  Can Yuuri and Viktor help him out even if he doesn’t know how to ask?





	Tensile Strength

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Okaeri: Yuri!!! On Ice Home Zine

The locker room is deserted and dark as Yuri wrenches open his locker with unnecessary force to grab his skates and a water bottle from his bag. All the good little skaters have gone home to bed long ago, leaving the sports complex to the janitors, the maintenance men in the basement, and the support staff tucked away in their offices. And to Yuri. 

He takes a long swallow of water and allows himself to slouch down against the lockers, the cold from the metal doors seeping through his jacket. His muscles are sore and his joints ache after the long hours in Lilia’s, studio but his mind is as chaotic and active as ever, refusing to settle. 

Until recently, Yuri never considered himself a hard worker. He skated because he was good at it and because he liked winning and needed the prize money, but he never saw the point in the long hours of dedicated practice—he hadn’t needed them. Certain events had changed his perspective on the subject, but he’d also grown to appreciate the pure physicality of a hard day of practice. 

He glances at the wall clock and pushes himself up with a sigh, returning the water bottle to his locker. His phone flashes with an incoming message but he ignores it, tossing the device carelessly into the locker with a metallic thunk. 

After eleven. The ice will definitely be empty by now, even the slowest and most lackadaisical of the Zamboni drivers likes to clear out by ten. He picks up his skate bag and heads for the rink. 

Yakov’s had him dry conditioning for days and he wants back on the ice so badly it’s a physical itch under his skin, a deep-set ache in his bones. And the feeling isn’t just due to the growth spurt that’s half the reason Yakov is keeping him off the ice. Yuri knows his coach isn’t stupid—not that he will ever admit it to the man’s face—but he needs to skate. The drive burns in his bones, his errant thoughts swim in his mind, and both only grow more insistent the more they are denied. 

The first time he stayed late into the night after practice, Yakov had pulled him aside the next day to give him a full dressing down about the threat of overwork to his growing body and the dangers of skating alone and unsupervised. As if he hadn’t heard the same from Lilia the night before when she caught him trying to sneak into the apartment in the early hours of the morning. 

Yuri was careful, though. Contrary to popular opinion he isn’t stupid—he knows better than to risk breaking a leg with no one around to help. Sometimes he just really, really needs to skate. He also learned to text Lilia to let her know when he would be back late. 

The lights are off in the rink as Yuri passes into the cavernous, air-conditioned space. Moonlight shines brightly through the tall windows, casting the room into a muted, almost black-and-white version of its usual self. The hush of blades carving through ice is loud in the quiet air and Yuri scowls as he catches sight of a dark silhouette moving across the rink. There goes his plan to sneak some ice time. He runs a hand through his hair and flinches as his fingers get caught in the tangles. Who else would even still be practicing this late at night?

Yuri kicks half-heartedly at the boards, not wanting to put his full strength behind it with how much his knees are bothering him, but the sound reverberates throughout the space. He freezes, heart pounding in his chest, then looks up. The figure on the ice draws to a halt and stares back at him.

“Hello?” The familiar, Japanese accented question does nothing to ease the tightness in Yuri’s chest. 

Of course it’s him. It couldn’t be anyone easy to deal with. Anyone Yuri could intimidate into not asking questions would have listened to Yakov and been in bed already. At least it wasn’t Mila. She would have given him so much shit about how _dedicated_ a student he’s become. But no. It’s freaking Katsudon. Quite possibly the last person Yuri wants to see right now.

And see him he most certainly does, as Yuuri approaches the boards, squinting at Yuri who continues to stand and stare dumbly, willing his feet to move or his throat to say something and wondering how he had missed the familiar glasses and red-and-white hard guards set neatly by the edge of the rink.

“Yurio?” Yuuri frowns as he draws to a stop in front of Yuri. “What are you doing here?”

Yuri shakes his head. “Nothing. I was just leaving. What are you doing here, Katsudon? It’s the middle of the night, shouldn’t you and Viktor be at home being gross or something?” It wasn’t as if he expects the deflection to work, with Yuuri wearing his concerned face, but he has to at least make an effort.

And he does want an answer. He quickly runs through his interactions with Yuuri over the last few days, what little there were of them since he had been restricted to the gym and the studio. Nothing particularly off stood out. Yuri knew Yuuri had been working on refining his short program for Four Continents and he and Viktor had been up to their gross couple stuff as usual. Yuri thought everything had been going fine. So why is Yuuri here, at the rink, and not at home with his fiancé, sleeping or watching a movie, or doing things Yuri really did not want to be thinking about?

Yuuri stands in the gate, one hand on the boards the other tapping lightly against his thigh. He’s looking at Yuri with a frown, a tiny wrinkle furrowed between his eyebrows. He doesn’t comment on Yuri’s attire, the lack of winter coat if nothing else a giveaway that he has not yet prepared to leave the sports complex. 

Instead, he just says, “sometimes I need to skate.” He shrugs, as if that explains everything, or if it didn’t then admitting that any further explanation would be just as insufficient.

Yeah, Yuri gets it. He really gets it. And maybe he doesn’t exactly want to think about the specifics of why he gets it—the string of voicemails on his phone from the doctors, the hospital, the physical therapists, the unreturned ones from his dedushka like a weight hanging around his neck—or think about whatever darker specifics linger behind Yuuri’s eyes at his own words, so he just nods. “Oh. Okay.”

The silence drags on, nothing to interrupt it but the occasional door slamming deep in the building and the distant sounds of the cars outside, usually inaudible over the daylit sounds of the occupied rink but now a faint connection to the world outside Yuri can still only barely make out over the rush of blood in his ears.

He still feels the driving desire to skate, to have the ice under his blades just for a little while, to prove to himself that this is still something he has, that this is still something he can do, that he is still capable, that the shifting balance and aching joints aren't the end of everything he’s spent so many years working towards. But Yuuri is here, and Yuri can’t just make him leave (a tiny, unacknowledged part of him very much does not want to make him leave) and anything he does now will just make Yuuri suspicious.

“Do you want to skate?”

The question breaks the silence and Yuri starts, worried for half a second that he accidentally voiced his thoughts out loud. How else would Yuuri know? But Yuuri only gestures to Yuri’s skates and repeats. “Do you want to skate? I don’t mind sharing the rink if you don’t.”

“Sure, that’s fine,” Yuri says, the words rushed through his teeth like sprinters for the finish line. Yuuri smiles at him as Yuri sits down to lace up his skates before returning to whatever he had been doing before Yuri arrived.

The first step out onto the ice releases tension in his shoulders Yuri hadn’t realized he was carrying. He couldn’t even say why it makes him feel better as he slowly skates around the rink. It wasn’t as if he was afraid he had forgotten how to skate or anything stupid like that. He isn’t even doing anything difficult, just the most basic of his usual warm-ups. He _can’t_ do anything difficult—his jumps have been giving him the most trouble and he can’t work on those without supervision, and that won’t happen until Yakov agrees to let him back on the ice officially.

Yuuri keeps to his own half of the rink, and Yuri appreciates the illusion of solitude. He moves through one of the bits of footwork for his free program. The quick, tricky steps have been giving his newly proportioned limbs trouble but in the quiet and dark of the rink, he finds himself moving more like he used to. He transitions into a sit spin and grins as strain tugs on his muscles. The next bit of choreography is even tougher, but his adrenaline is racing now, he feels almost giddy, like he wants to laugh and shout all at once, and he launches into it without hesitation. And promptly trips over the toe pick of his new, stupid big skates, bought to accommodate his new, stupid big feet, and crashes to the ice like an oversized clumsy toddler just learning how to balance upright in skates.

The ice is cold through his leggings, his knees throb, and the scrapes on his palms burn. He hadn’t even noticed he’d forgotten his gloves. The adrenaline is still working its way through his system, but it’s from fear and anger now, and while Yuri still wants to shout it isn’t from joy anymore. The ice almost glows white in the moonlight and Yuri tells himself that is why it hurts to look at it.

A pair of black skates slide to a stop in his field of vision. “Yurio?” Yuuri’s voice is quiet, concerned, too damn kind. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Katsudon,” he bites out, “leave me alone.”

The skates don’t move. “I’d feel better if you show me you can stand up first.”

Yuri rolls his eyes with a huff. He’s a competitive figure skater. Of course he can stand up. It’s one of the first things they teach you. How to fall down and how to get back up. How to get up faster, how to recover better. How to put the mistakes behind you and carry on. He can get up. He just doesn’t want to.

His fingers curl and his nails scratch the ice. They’re still pressed flat on the ice behind him—oh. That’s why his hands are numb. Yuri pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. Maybe it makes him look like a petulant child, but he feels a bit like one now and it’s not like there’s anyone here to see him but Yuuri anyway, and Yuri’s seen him at way worse.

“I said I’m fine, Katsudon,” he says, a little more forcefully. It’s true, too. Apart from a few scrapes and bruises, he’s no worse off than he was before he fell. It seems like it has been forever since he has been free of the aches and pains that come with his growing, awkward, traitorous body. He’ll take the familiar hurts from skating any day.

Yuuri crouches down, face almost level with Yuri’s. “Still,” he says, “I would feel better if you stood up. And didn’t spend the rest of the night sitting on the ice.”

“I’m not going to sit on the ice all night, idiot,” Yuri snapped, pushing himself upright, “my ass would get cold. See? I’m fine.” 

That earns him a laugh, even if Yuri isn’t quite sure why. He can’t say he’s ever really understood Yuuri, who seems to laugh or cry at the strangest provocations.

“I’m fine,” he repeats, “you can go back to whatever you were doing.” That is a lie. Yuri knows exactly what Yuuri had been doing, tracing figures over and over again as he was wont to do as part of his warm-ups or to refocus when whatever else he’d been practicing failed to come together. 

But Yuuri shakes his head. “No, I think I’m done for the night. How about you?”

Yuri takes stock of his tired, sore body, and weighs it against the mess in his mind. “You do whatever, Katsudon, I’m not finished yet,” he says, willful stubbornness clear in his voice. “Go home. It’s not as if I don’t want the whole rink to myself.”

He gets another laugh at that, as Yuuri heads for the edge of the rink. “Okay, Yurio, be careful.”

“Shut up, I’ll be fine,” he snaps back, something warm in his chest that he refuses to acknowledge as the conversation dissolves into familiar patterns. “And that isn’t my name.” The last bit is more a mutter than a shout.

He tries to get back into the rhythm of his practice, but that brief moment of connection eludes him. His movements are awkward, his limbs uncooperative. He manages to avoid any more hard falls, but his usually precise motions are interrupted by trips and stumbles, flailing and cursing.

It’s maybe only twenty minutes later that Yuri draws to a halt, red-faced, hissing his anger and frustration between his teeth with his breath. This is the worst he’s felt all day—no, all week—and while the stubborn, irrational part of his mind is pushing him to keep going the rest of him just wants to find a quiet corner to curl up and cry. 

At least he’s been at it long enough that Yuuri must be gone home to Viktor by now.

The quiet figure sitting on one of the benches by the side of the rink dashes those hopes to dust on the rubberized floor.

“Why the hell are you still here, Katsudon?” The words don’t have as much venom as Yuri was aiming for, but it’s the middle of the night, he’s tired, he hurts, and everything sucks. If something else was going to quit on him it just figured it was going to be his primary defense mechanism, given the way his life was going right now.

“I was waiting for you,” came the soft reply as Yuri sat on the bench to unlace his skates, his muscles and joints groaning with relief.

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I never said you did.”

Yuri presses his feet flat against the cold floor, caught between relishing the cold and hissing at the stretch on his aching tendons. He doesn’t look at Yuuri as he carefully dries his skates, jaw clenched tight as he pays more attention to the process than he ever has before. Even his awesome tiger-print soakers only twist the bitterness tighter in his throat—they’d been a birthday gift from Yuuri the year prior.

“Yurio.” Yuuri’s soft words break the silence and Yuri’s tenuous grasp on his temper.

“That’s not my name, asshole!”

The words echo through the empty space and Yuri is finally looking at Yuuri, the wide eyes and raised eyebrows, lips slightly parted in surprise, and Yuri feels like he is going to be sick. His stomach churns, his eye water and he squints, screwing up his face into something he hopes can be passed off as a scowl, clenching his teeth against the tremors running through his chin.

That wasn’t what he meant, he doesn't even know what he means to say half the time anymore, but this isn’t helping, nothing he does is helping, he doesn’t know how to make any of this stop and it’s just too much with his dedushka in the hospital and this stupid growth spurt and everything is too much and too fast and he can’t breathe for it all.

Yuri gasps out a sob and desperately sucks in more air. His hands are shaking and he’s balled them into tight fists, the nails cutting crescents into his palms.

“Yuri? Yura? Yura?”

He registers his name as if it is coming from far away and looks up. His eyelashes are damp and clumped together as he forces his eyes open and he smears a palm over his face. Yuuri is crouched in front of him, not touching but close, and the overwhelming look of concern on his face is almost more than Yuri can take.

But he forces a deep breath and says “I’m okay.”

Yuuri frowns and looks like he is going to object.

“I’m okay,” Yuri says again, forcefully ignoring the wobble in his voice and the sting of salt water still dripping down his face. “Really. I’m fine.”

Instead of trying to answer that Yuuri just sits there, contemplative, crouched in front of Yuri as he wipes his dripping nose with the back of his sleeve. Then he gets up and sits on the bench, Yuri’s skate bag between them, casually studying the toes of his sneakers stretched out in front of him.

“You know,” he says conversationally, “I think you’re as tall as I am now.”

“Huh? Probably. I’m going to be taller than you.” Yuri isn’t sure if he’s bragging or angry or defiant about that but there’s a strong emotion in there somewhere.

Yuuri chuckles. “Yeah. You’ll probably be as tall as Viktor.”

“I’ll be even taller than the old man.” He isn’t quite certain why he’s getting competitive over this, since ‘tall’ isn’t exactly a positive attribute for a figure skater—and it’s precisely his height that has been the source of so much of his grief lately—but Yuri feels the first glimmer of that familiar fire light in his chest at Yuuri’s words.

“I’m sure you will.” Yuuri’s smiling, just a little, the corners of his mouth tilted up. “You’ll grow taller just to spite him if nothing else.” He falls silent for a moment, the grin slipping off his face into something more contemplative. 

“I know growth spurts can really be a pain, with skating, and, um, you seem to be having a hard time—which is totally normal under the circumstances, but, well,” he hesitates, biting his lip, “if you want any help I know a lot of exercises and drills from Minako-sensei that really helped me when I was growing, not to say that what your coaches are doing is wrong or anything, of course, you don’t need my help, I just thought I’d offer, you know, if you wanted.”

The words flood out in a rush and cut off in an instant. Yuri takes a second to parse them and barks out a laugh. It’s hoarse and a bit watery, but there’s a lightness in his chest and the angry thoughts crowding his mind have faded to background static for the moment.

Yuuri starts and glances at him, worried frown dropping onto his face, but Yuri just shakes his head. He’d take Yuuri’s weird, rambly, anxiety bullshit any day over the quiet patience and stares of pity he’s been getting the last few weeks. He can’t even find it in himself to get mad about the offer of help (probably because something in him recognizes it as a good idea). Yuuri is, above all, a good skater, a great skater, and even if his adolescent years were somewhat hampered by whatever goes on in his head Yuri knows Yuuri managed to make it to his mid-twenties and the top of the Japanese ranks still in prime physical shape and without any serious injuries.

Yuri looks over to see Yuuri still chewing on his lower lip, fingers twisting aimlessly in his lap. “Sure, Katsudon,” he says, and watches his posture relax, “show me what you’ve got.” If the words are a little mumbled and reluctant Yuuri makes no comment.

Instead, he zips up his jacket. “Do you want to stay over with me and Viktor tonight? It’s late, and we can get started early tomorrow with some of the exercises.”  
Yuri hesitates, but it isn’t a difficult decision. Going back to Lilia’s means sneaking in to avoid waking her up and trying to find half-decent cold leftovers in the refrigerator. At Viktor and Yuuri’s he’ll have to deal with, well, Viktor and Yuuri, but at least he’ll get a hot meal out of it and they’ll probably let him use their bathtub if he asks. He’d worry about Potya but he knows Lilia likes her better than she lets on and will have already fed and checked in on her.

“Fine, whatever,” he says, shoving his feet into his sneakers and lacing them up. “Let me get the rest of my stuff.”

The walk to Viktor and Yuuri’s apartment is cold but it’s quick, and Yuri tells himself that that was the real reason he accepted Yuuri’s offer.

They’re greeted at the door by an excited Makkachin, Yuuri laughing as he slips off his shoes and the poodle licks his face. She’s followed by an only slightly more subdued Viktor, wearing a dressing gown and quiet smile as he softly kisses his husband in the entryway. He’s on the phone, on Skype, and doesn’t disconnect the call, and suddenly the entryway is overflowing with people and voices and greetings and poodle.

“Ah! Yurio! Mama Hiroko, Yurio’s here!” Viktor releases his husband long enough to turn his bright, open grin on Yuri. “Yurio, say hi!” 

With a grunt and a wave, Yuri dodges the welcoming committee, friendly voices and tendrils of familial warmth that he can’t really feel drifting after him as he hangs his coat on the rack before heading to the guest bedroom to drop his bags.

Makkachin trots along behind and hops up next to him on the couch as he flips through the channels. It’s the dead of night now, and the only things on are infomercials, televangelists, and reruns of Law and Order. He turns the TV off. He’d get up and put in a DVD but his body protests even the thought of moving.

Viktor and Yuuri are still being gross in the foyer, kissing and murmuring to one another and Yuri tries to tune them out. Makkachin shoves her nose under his hand, so he scratches her behind the ears. Her tail makes a thumping sound on the couch as she wags it. She isn’t a terrible dog, as dogs go, Yuri thinks. Her muzzle is more grey than brown, and he pushes away the implications of that.

He checks his phone. No answer from Lilia, but he wasn’t expecting one. There’s another voicemail from his dedushka, though, and his heart is in his throat as he listens. The familiar voice is warm, comforting as it tells him not to worry. _The doctor said it’s just a strain, Yuratchka, so don’t worry about me. A week or two and I’ll be right as rain. Take care of yourself._

Makkachin licks at his fingers as he set down his phone and he grimaces, wiping the saliva on his pants. She noses at his hip and whines, so he goes back to petting her head. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. At least the dog can’t judge him for being unable to freaking skate anymore.

“Yura.” The couch dips and Yuri finds himself sandwiched between dog and owner as Viktor folds himself into the remaining space.

“What do you want, old man?” Yuri tries to give the words their usual bite but they troop out tiredly, soldiers weary to the battle.

Viktor doesn’t have his full media smile on, but his expression is definitely one he usually only uses with the press. Yuri wonders when he started to be able to tell the difference. Probably once Yuuri came. Definitely only since Yuuri came.

“Yuuri’s fixing himself something to eat. You should eat too if you’ve been working this late. It’s just leftovers, nothing fancy, but it’s Yuuri’s cooking, so it’s good.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Yuri says just to cut off the stream of awkward hospitality, pretending as though his stomach doesn’t roar to life at the thought of Yuuri’s cooking. He thinks Viktor can hear it, but at least for once in his life he has the good sense to keep quiet.

“Okay, well. That’s good then.”

They sit there in silence, the distant sounds of pots and dishes clinking and Yuuri humming drifting in from the kitchen. Viktor is perched awkwardly on the sofa as if he is the guest and not Yuri. Yuri glances at him out of the corner of his eye as he runs his fingers through the fur of a contented Makkachin. The silence stretches taut. Viktor taps a fingernail against the plastic of his phone case and breaks first. 

“Yurio, I, well, you know Yuuri and I are here for you, right? And Mama Hiroko and Yuuko, and everyone back in Hasetsu, and everyone here, too. You know that we’re here for you if you need help, when you need help. Right?” The look on Viktor’s face is painful to look at, so awkward and earnest, media mask long forgotten, that Yuri goes back to hugging the dog.

“Shut up, old man. Don’t try and be an emotionally mature adult now. You suck at it anyway.” Makkachin’s fur is soft and springy under his fingers, not as nice as Potya’s of course, but nice. It might not be the worst thing in the world to bury his face in her side, he thinks, so he does. The stupid dog seems to enjoy this sort of behavior and curls around him to cuddle closer. “Yeah, I know.” His words are muffled in Makkachin’s fur, but he thinks Viktor hears, damn him.

Yuuri comes into the living room then and sets a plate of something wonderful-smelling down in front of Yuri. He has to argue with Makkachin over which of them gets to eat it, but really that’s only an endorsement of how good it tastes. Viktor is no help at all, only laughing as Makkachin drools on Yuri’s shoulder and tries to steal his chicken. 

The hot food leads to a creeping sort of lethargy that Yuri hadn’t expected. He manages to drag himself through a hot bath, the warmth and Viktor’s fancy scented bath salt shit combining to work all the tension out of him, even if it stings on his scrapes and blisters. A set of pajamas—his own, from a prior sleepover—and a towel through his hair and Yuri slumps into the guest bed, asleep before he remembers to turn out the bedside light.

* * *

Warm rays of sunlight stretch across Yuri’s face and he sneezes, pulling the covers up over his head. The blankets are soft and warm, the apartment quiet and still. Makkachin’s nails click on the floorboards as she walks by the door.

Yuri’s eyes snap open and he shoots a hand out to smack at the bedside table, searching for his phone. What the hell time is it? He doesn’t find his phone, but there’s a clock with the time displayed in neat digital numerals: 9:25. Yuri groans and rubs his eyes. Yakov’s going to kill him. No, _Lilia’s_ going to kill him. What the hell. He never sleeps this late, not even on rest days. 

The blankets get shoved to the floor and Yuri stumbles to the kitchen. The apartment is empty apart from the cheerful standard poodle tagging along at his heels. Viktor and Yuuri are at the rink, of course, where he should be. Why the hell hadn’t they woken him up?

He yanks open the refrigerator hoping they at least left him something to eat before they left. There’s a plate in the center of the top shelf, saran-wrapped with a post-it note stuck on top. He grabs it and kicks the door shut.

The plate goes in the microwave as Yuri reads the letter. _Yura_ , it says, in Yuuri’s somewhat scribbly hand, _please eat this for breakfast. Viktor will talk to Yakov to see about getting us some ice time. Hopefully we’ll be able to start work later today. Your cell is plugged in by the toaster. There’s a bento for you on the second shelf. See you at practice._

Yuri shovels his slightly under-reheated breakfast down as quickly as he can and races around the apartment grabbing his things and getting ready. He finds his phone where the note said, plugged in and charged up, with a bevy of missed calls and texts waiting for him. As he brushes his teeth he scrolls through them, toiletries right where he left them the last time he stayed over. 

There’s a text from Otabek—a picture of the sunrise, why can’t he just post this stuff to Instagram like everyone else?—and one from Mari that starts _hey brat_. A voicemail from Yakov scolds him for being late before informing him that he’d better be on time for his afternoon training session if he wants ever even wants to think about ice time. Toothpaste runs down his chin as he grins. The old man came through.

He gives Makkachin a pat as he stuffs his feet into his sneakers and runs out the door. The air is damp and the wind is brisk, but the sky is clear and the sun is shining brightly. Yuri fishes his phone out as he hurries down the sidewalk. He only has a few minutes before he reaches the rink, but he needs to make this call.

“Hi dedushka,” he says as the line picks up, and he ducks his chin into his hoodie as he realizes he’s smiling wider than he ever allows himself to in public. “It’s me.”


End file.
